Sickness
by bestia
Summary: Mozenrath knew he was sick... Warning: Dark subject matter. No slash.


Mozenrath knew he was sick; he knew it and there was no sense in denying it. It was only right that a man could blame corruption in his soul for getting hot and primal under his clothes as he straddled his enemy's hips and proceeded to brutalize him. Mozenrath would squeeze, hands wrapped covetously around Aladdin's throat, mercilessly, tightly, with Aladdin giving the good fight beneath him. It only intensified Mozenrath's anger, however. It angered him that Aladdin invested so much pride, bravado and confidence, at least out of range of these little sessions, in a body so easily conquered, as small as it was.

It wasn't right, he knew, to bring Aladdin so close to dying, his struggles lessening, then to jerk him back from the black edge with a moderate slackening of his grip, if only for his pleasure of doing it all over again. When Aladdin was going under, without fail his body would arch up weakly, rubbing against Mozenrath's. It was as if it was a desperate attempt to get Mozenrath to recognize he was a physical, human being, perhaps deserving of mercy, his eyes fluttering closed.

When Mozenrath tired of this, he would remove his hands from Aladdin's throat and leave him gasping gratefully with his back in the hard sand of some dirty alley. Mozenrath would carry on then by meticulously examining the dark purple bruising on his neck. He would touch, run his fingertips over them, feeling rather than seeing Aladdin flinch in pain or discomfort. Aladdin would sometimes reach up to rightfully intercede, but Mozenrath would slap his hands away or place them firmly at his sides in a non-verbal order for compliance, the look in his eyes threat enough. Every now and then, Aladdin would glare up in righteous, youthful, and angry defiance. Mozenrath could not predict when his mood would turn to this, but he would always resist the temptation to bludgeon the expression off Aladdin's face. Then again, sometimes he did not. (The resisting anyway).

If he was lucky, or sought it out as he often did, he would see Aladdin the following morning, or the next day if opportunity did not permit. In any case, Aladdin's skin would bear bruises that had turned a sick green and yellow, and he would look haggard and cowed, at least for the moment. His posture faltered, his expression lest sure, and his entire feel of a person afraid and defeated. Jasmine would hover round, naturally, but Mozenrath knew instinctively Aladdin wasn't giving any answers good enough to placate her. Regardless, there was physical evidence that Aladdin was indeed afflicted.

And Mozenrath would feel _immense_ satisfaction.

Aladdin confused him, was a constant source of a way of life that, to Mozenrath, seemed naïve and weak, illogical in all customs. He just didn't understand it; it frustrated him to the point of needing to vent his irritability on something, or better yet, someone, namely Aladdin. Besides, he basically asked for it.

Aladdin could have everything, everything a man could possibly want. Peace, wealth, friends, love, respect and acceptance, all were practically dropped into his lap by a doting Lady Fate. Aladdin was a vessel for all the poetic justice in the world. Mozenrath knew his back-story, he knew well of Aladdin's family history, his legacy, the path that led him to the palace doors and Jasmine's heart. Aladdin should be grateful, wary even, for what bounty the Gods give, they quickly take away. No one's _that _lucky; that just wasn't the way of the world.

And yet here Aladdin was, letting Mozenrath do these things to him at his leisure, as if he had no particular desire to preserve his gifted life and perhaps stay out Mozenrath's way. It derailed Mozenrath to see it. Aladdin would slip quietly, carefully out of his hovel. Some nights, it was the palace itself he gently eased his way out of. What care he would take to ensure he would get back into Mozenrath's hands, the hands of a man who wanted nothing more than to hurt him!

It just didn't make sense. What was this to him? Nothing in Mozenrath's mind could be a legitimate reason Aladdin would risk everything, his healthy, his livelihood, the trust of his friends, even his life in meeting where Mozenrath told him in the most ungodly hours of the night. When, even, was Mozenrath's to dictate.

Mozenrath would arrive there, be it on a dune outside of the city, in Mozenrath's own Citadel, or Agrabah. It didn't matter; he knew Aladdin would doggedly come, waiting silent and passive, submissive even before their sordid culmination began. Which was the façade, Mozenrath wondered this or how he behaved in front of his friends?

Mozenrath would make his appearance, yes, and he was subject to be in any sort of mood, varying through raw anger or cruel, business like sadism. On those nights, he wouldn't launch directly into his abuse. He would begin by instating a sort of banter between the two. He would make cutting little comments on Aladdin, his state, his looks, his dress, even the situation itself, as taboo of a subject as it should have been, considering the circumstances. Usually silence was Aladdin's only defense, as if stoically bearing the lead up to the punishment he came for. However, if Mozenrath would happen to say the right thing, touch the right nerve, Aladdin would snap back, a bit more like his old self again.

This was well enough for Mozenrath, because then the game could really begin. But whatever rise he got out of Aladdin wasn't a promise that Aladdin would sincerely resist; any struggles or fight he put up was half hearted at best. In any case, Mozenrath would always wind up dominating without fail. And this was the conclusion of their session, the final goal, for Aladdin to be at the mercy of Mozenrath's darker reserves.

Occasionally, Mozenrath would change styles of torture, as choking wasn't his only method. The purpose of this change was to inevitably harm Aladdin more efficiently in a sense that he would not be able to predict, prepare for, or get used to Mozenrath's treatments. His fancied manners of afflicting pain were many, though he had his favorites. One night, he may wrack Aladdin's body in only the way his gauntlet's magics could, another he would perhaps feign drowning him, and still one night Aladdin might find himself fighting panic as he was bound, blindfolded, and buried alive. (Mozenrath would only rescue him when Aladdin felt sure his heart was eating its way out of his chest)

Mozenrath hit metaphorical gold when he decided to act on an impulse during one of he and Aladdin's meetings. He was struck with a sudden urge to shock Aladdin, to rip him from the comforts of what he thought normal. That was his only purpose, he told himself like a mantra, which was the reason he inclined his head and kissed Aladdin boldly on the lips. He kissed to hurt, a bastardization of a normally affectionate act. He was hard, forceful, teeth ripping, biting and tearing. In reward for his sacrifice, Aladdin reacted marvelously, eyes shooting open wide, resisting and pushing at Mozenrath with his broken body desperately, writhing, muffled curses between them, till at last a great, stricken, and defeated wail tore itself from his throat. Mozenrath had parted then, ignoring the fact that he too was shocked with what he had done, eyes and teeth glinting as he smirked down at a horrified Aladdin.

He hated Aladdin. He hated him with everything. Every fiber of Mozenrath's skin was charged with that same unequivocal, burning, righteous hate. He hated Aladdin for being so careless with all the gifts life gave him. What would happen if his friends, if Jasmine were to catch wind of what went on in these late hours between the two? Surely they would abandon him, question his sanity, and be disgusted, most assuredly. It was scandalous, beyond foolish to not appreciate what a beautiful, rare thing he had with Jasmine. She loved him, dammit! It was painfully clear.

He was stupid for betraying Jasmine! What a life they could spend together married! It would be endless, golden, with many exciting, fruitful chapters that would bring glory, honor and betterment to them both. They would, beyond a doubt, have beautiful, perfect children, the world so much better for the additions they would contribute to it.

In short, Mozenrath could not grasp the audacity Aladdin had to have in order for him to walk into possible death, to gamble loosing it all. It seemed greedy to Mozenrath, selfish. What else, what high, could Aladdin not be satisfied without?

But perhaps most of all, he despised Aladdin's nature, for being trusting and blindly being willing to offer friendship and love to whoever wanted it. To be a hero, to be selfless was a dead art, who was Aladdin to transpire bringing it back?

Tonight was just one of many. Mozenrath had selected the place, a scrubby patch of green on the horizon that dared to be called an oasis. What water had once been here was dried up, leaving a dip in the ground, an empty dip filled with flaking, dirty slabs of earth, in which his back was pressed. Mozenrath was currently in the business of breaking Aladdin's fingers on his right hand. He took one of his digits into his fingers and pulled them back until a crisp snap was heard. Mozenrath's knee pinioned Aladdin's other wrist to the ground, all his weight upon it. He supposed that hurt like hell too, but was also confidence Aladdin's immediate attention wasn't on that.

Aladdin wasn't inward, you see, about showing what sort of agony he was in. He was shaking, flopping spasmodically with each crack of his bones. He was pale, sweating, sticky tears down his eyes. He tried to stifle any noises, but had long ago bit through his lip doing that in a moment of extreme pain, so every whimper or scream was clearly heard.

Mozenrath was unconcerned, naturally, only interested in how close Aladdin was to passing out, the pain too much. He wanted to say something first, and knew he had to hurry when Aladdin's eyes took on a glossy look.

"What's wrong with you?" he demanded.

Aladdin met his eyes for a fleeting moment, but didn't answer, and it took Mozenrath a moment to figure out he had finally succumbed to oblivion; it's gentle, rocking arms. He got up and went about a rhythmic, practiced procedure of resetting Aladdin's fingers back in place and splinting them. He did so messily, without much care for detail or thoroughness. Suddenly, it had occurred to Mozenrath hits was really just business. If Aladdin was going to make it easy for him, why not? Perhaps the pain in his hand that would surely last for days would make him less of a threatening opponent to face next time Mozenrath attacked.

It was thundering, great ominous rumbles reaching all across the desert horizon, the early dawn sky a clotted yellow and gray. Mozenrath knew it was a threat and nothing more. No rain would come; this was dry lightening. Still, storms made his stomach uncomfortable, and he was possessed with a wistful desire to be in his own bed. He stood, straightening his clothes and preparing to leave.

"I don't deserve it."

Mozenrath turned; mildly surprised Aladdin had revived so early. The street rat had managed to raise himself up in a half-sitting, half-lying position. His bangs were plastered to his forehead and he still looked a great deal worse for wear by his muddled up complexion, still a little green.

"What in the world are you going on about?" Mozenrath snapped irritably. He wanted to just _leave; _he was done with Aladdin for now.

Aladdin took a breath that was obviously meant to steady him to answer. Mozenrath eyed Aladdin's mangled hand he had draped across one knee thoughtfully.

"Earlier, you asked what was wrong with me, I don't deserve it, do you understand?"

Now he had Mozenrath's attention. Aladdin spoke with passion, though there was a strange mix of contempt there too, contempt and incredulity.

"I don't deserve this, everything! My life and what it has become now, I don't _have _to beg for or steal the food it takes to get by anymore, Mozenrath. I'm not constantly afraid of slavers, the guards, some terrible sickness or injury, starving or dehydrating. I'm safe, and beyond that, I'm fucking privileged!"

He spoke his piece with eyes wild with conviction. The sky heaved up a great dirge of thunder that shifted the ground beneath Mozenrath's feet.

"I have the love of a princess, friends, now with power and magic, but dammit, good hearts! Don't' you get it? That's more than I ever even hoped for, but more importantly, more than I deserve. Who am I to get all of this? I've lied, stolen, and betrayed people who trusted me countless times in the past. I'm not a good person. So why? Why should I have what others can only dream of having/ By all rights, Mozenrath, I shouldn't have even lived to this age! Nobody is guaranteed to if you came from where I did. Do you know how easy it is for a kid to just get snatched off the streets, to get an infected wound and die, to get your hand cut off if, Allah forbid, you were caught stealing? What about the kids I grew up with who didn't make it this far? I'm no better than them, not by a long shot! Why should they die or want and I get so far? Why me, Mozenrath?"

In a moment of heat, he tried to draw himself up to stand, eyes shining with sincerity. He forgot himself, using his broken fingered hand as leverage. He cried out in pain, but stubbornly pressed on till he was upright. For a moment, it looked as if he might accost Mozenrath, but instead, he just at him in awful, genuine, and internal hurt.

"Why me?...I don't deserve it." He finished simply, weakly, as if his words had been merely the first way to come along of expressing an ache Mozenrath would never be able to contest externally, no matter what he did.

Mozenrath left him, of course, there faltering on the sand. He understood Aladdin a little better now, at least this newest layer. Clearly, Aladdin had self-esteem issues, the question to motivate Mozenrath to further seek him out was no…Why? What happened? Or perhaps it was as clear cut as Aladdin had knowingly confessed so thoroughly. There was no scale depicting the depth Mozenrath should judge by. But the greater part was Mozenrath found no reason to pity Aladdin. So what if the kids view of thing was so twisted and warped, so destructive and wrong? It was none of Mozenrath's concern; he had no invested to reason to look out for the younger man. Besides, he expected more out of Aladdin.

Aladdin should _get through _his complexes to appreciate the things Mozenrath could never have himself. He at least owed Mozenrath that. There was no reason Mozenrath should stop his endeavors with Aladdin. It had occurred to him, after all, that in this world of perfect people, two **sick **people should stick together.


End file.
